Qing'er and her mirrored self moved as one.
The crazed cultivators rushed forward, eyes void of reason, blades thirsting for blood.
But Qing'er was no longer fighting alone.
Her duplicate parried the first strike, knocking an enemy off balance. Qing'er followed through, her sword slashing in a perfect arc—a clean, decisive kill.
The battle shifted in an instant.
The Blood Mist howled around them, as if angered. The corrupted cultivators hesitated.
Their prey was no longer helpless.
She was a reaper among the mist.
One stepped forward, screaming, swinging his sword wildly.
Qing'er didn't retreat.
She advanced.
A flicker—she sidestepped. A breath—the sword missed. A heartbeat—her blade pierced his chest.
Yao Yan's voice whispered in her mind.
"Good. You're finally understanding the art of battle."
She exhaled sharply. There were only three left now.
The survivors snarled, their bloodshot eyes flickering with madness. But Qing'er could see it now—fear.
"They're losing their will to fight," she murmured.
"Then finish them."
She didn't need to be told twice.
She and her duplicate charged together—a blur of white and crimson.
One fell.
Then another.
And finally, the last enemy stood frozen. His sword trembled.
Qing'er vanished—appearing behind him in a flash.
Her blade gleamed as it sliced through the mist—the final strike.
Silence.
The man collapsed.
The mist thinned. The valley returned to stillness.
Qing'er lowered her sword, breathing hard.
She had won.
But before she could rest, Yao Yan's voice rang out—low, amused.
"Not bad, little master," he murmured. "But this was only the first step."
Qing'er swallowed. Somehow, she knew he was right.
And as the last remnants of the mist faded, she felt something shift within her.
Something awakening.
She clenched her fist.
I'm ready for whatever comes next.